


windows to the soul

by A_Confused_Kitten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Blind Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, Creepy Alastair (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Protective of Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e07 It's the Great Pumpkin Sam Winchester, Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin, Hell Trauma, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Pre-Slash, Protective Dean Winchester, Quote: But still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester., Season/Series 04, Sort Of, Warning: Alastair (Supernatural), Winged Castiel (Supernatural), and i ain't changin it now, dean is not having a good time, i spelled 'alastair' as 'alistair' the entire time writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Confused_Kitten/pseuds/A_Confused_Kitten
Summary: He fails.Castiel is too late, too slow, and Dean Winchester falls under Alistair’s blade.A soul screams under Dean Winchester’s hand, and Castiel should hate him. Should hate him because someone is begging for him to stop, for him to have mercy, but still, he does not stop, barely even hesitates-And yet, Castiel can’t make himself hate the soul in front of him.It’s hurting and bruised, but it’s still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester.~~Or, in which, Castiel is soul-sighted, and is in love with the soul he's meant to protect.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	windows to the soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDarkestCreatures](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkestCreatures/gifts).



> So! Just a quick note explaining some things. Mostly what I mean when I say Cas is 'kind of' blind. So basically, he sees souls and energy, which allows him to identify angels, demons, and humans, as well as wards and sigils and similar things. However, he can't see physical objects, and just generally sees darkness except for souls.
> 
> He uses his wings to make sure he doesn't walk into anything, though, they're still in another plain of existence. The last thing you need to know is that too *much* energy basically makes it impossible for him to identify anything, making him pretty much entirely blind. 
> 
> Now that that little ramble is over, there is some dialogue taken directly from canon, so some lines will sound familiar, especially if it's from the one scene I basically re-wrote entirely using canon dialogue.

Castiel is no stranger to the dark.

The darkness is all he has ever known, filling his vision, except for the soft glow of his brothers and sisters. The dark has never been an enemy of his, nor his ally, but simply a part of him. It’s something he’s grown used to, over thousands of years of life, and Castiel can’t picture existing without it. 

Soul-sighted, that’s what his brethren calls him. An anomaly, because who has ever heard of an angel who can’t see the world in front of them, but could see souls and grace?

 _It means you’re special, my little one,_ Gabriel used to say, _it’s a gift, remember that._ He vanished not long after that. His grace, once a beacon, was gone, as though it never was there to begin with.

That was the first brother he lost.

He never forgets his words though.

Castiel learns to wield his lack of sight like a blade. Learns that his wings can guide him just as well as his eyes can, teaches himself to recognize an angel's grace, no matter the distance between them, attunes himself to the energy of life, from the soft shine of a human soul to the twisted gleam of a demon's corroded essence.

It’s not hard, once he learns how, and somehow, Castiel climbs through the ranks faster than any angel he’s fought by. He hears whispers that soon enough, his darkness will be the end of him, that it’s impossible for someone like him to thrive as a soldier, but Castiel has faith, and because of that, words such as _impossible_ do not dismay him.

It’s because of this faith that he becomes the leader of his garrison.

It’s because of this that Zachariah gives him a mission to do the impossible.

Descend into Hell itself, his garrison behind him. Into the deepest parts of the pit, where screams echo and blood is shed. Go into that place of unspeakable suffering, and leave with the Righteous Man’s soul.

Dean Winchester.

That is the man he must save, the one he will either heal or die trying to. 

The name _Dean Winchester_ rings in his grace, and for a reason unknown to him, Castiel feels as though something is about to change. 

Hell is burning.

It’s twisted and burning and _angry,_ and broken screams fill Castiel’s senses as he dives further into torturous depths. Hellfire reaches for his wings, hissing as it’s fiery grasp closes in on his feathers, and Castiel has never felt so _blind._ He was raised in the dark of Heaven, where his sight was clear, but Hell cannot be compared to such things. 

Hell is loud and bright, filled with that hungry smoke that consumes all it touches. It’s red and black embers, and the demons that live here are no different. He fights creatures of ash and fire, and the moment the light leaves their bodies, their lava-like forms crumble, until only soot remains.

Every part of him is exhausted, but Castiel does not stop.

He is here for a reason, and he refuses to let Dean Winchester break when he could have been saved. It’s written that Dean Winchester is the one to start the apocalypse, and the one who must end it, and yet.

If there is a way to save him, and to prevent the seal from breaking in the first place, then shouldn’t Castiel try?

He fails.

Castiel is too late, too slow, and Dean Winchester falls under Alistair’s blade. 

The first time he lays eyes upon Dean Winchester’s soul, he has a blade in his hands and a demon whispering in his ear, but his soul is still bright, still good. He has a blade in his hand and guilt in his heart, and so much regret that Castiel could sense it from miles away.

A soul screams under Dean Winchester’s hand, and Castiel should hate him. Should hate him because someone is begging for him to stop, for him to have mercy, but still, he does not stop, barely even hesitates-

And yet, Castiel can’t make himself hate the soul in front of him. 

It’s hurting and bruised, but it’s still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester.

If Castiel could, he’d fly next to the man’s side, gently take the blade from his hand, and slowly, rebuild his soul. Let his grace flow through the battle scars and breathe life into his still body. But he cannot be rash. 

Even the slightest mistake could end in failure, and Castiel will not fail.

Not when he is this close to success. 

He makes his move when Alistair slips away, and the blade falls, clattering against blood-soaked ground. There is silence for a moment, then another, and then Castiel flies forward, stepping to the man’s side.

“Dean Winchester,” he says, his voice soft. “It is time for you to leave this place.”

The man inhales sharply. “Who are you?” He demands, and his voice is as beautiful as his soul.

Castiel lets his grace flow outwards, his wings unfurling. The motion stings, rustling burnt feathers and pulling at tired muscles, but this is one way to prove himself as good. "I am Castiel," he says, quietly. "Come with me. Quickly now, we don't have much time." 

"Angels? No such thing." 

Castiel pauses. "You might not have faith, Dean Winchester, but I will not lie to you, I swear it. I can prove to you what I am, but not here." 

Dean hesitates, and Castiel feels his eyes staring into his grace, questioning. A part of him wonders if he should say something, but remains silent. This is Dean's choice, to trust and let himself be saved or to doubt, stay trapped in this nightmare, and it is not his place to interfere.

So he watches, entranced by the beauty of Dean Winchester's soul, until the man finally speaks. "Okay." He says, and the word is a whisper on the air, a prayer that sings to Castiel's grace. "Okay, let's get the hell out of here."

And Castiel smiles.

Castiel smiles, and when he offers his hand, Dean Winchester takes it, and grace and soul meet in a soft embrace.

Dean Winchester's soul truly is beautiful.

It's soft and warm and kind, but it's also loyal and fierce and so, so strong. It's the soul of a protector, of someone who fights for what is right and never stops loving. _Yes,_ Castiel thinks, _this is the man who is going to save the world._

“What is your body like?” He asks his charge, because that is something he will never lay eyes on. This doesn't bother him, however, because this is the way things have always been. A being’s essence tells more about them then their body ever could, and Dean Winchester is no different.

He asks, and Dean answers, and Castiel knows what to do. 

Slowly, his grace reforms Dean’s body. Finds the place it was buried and creates it anew. He pictures tanned skin and lean muscles, just as they were in life. He paints freckles and sketches scars, his movements delicate and soft, because this needs to be perfect.

He doesn’t know why, but it does.

Dean’s soul intertwines with his grace, and Castiel knows it will leave a mark. 

It’s unheard of, for an angel to mark a human. To let a human’s soul touch your grace is far from forbidden, for it’s necessary at times, and how else could a prophet be protected by angels? But Dean Winchester is meant for something more, and Castiel’s grace will forever be tied to his soul.

When he is finished, Castiel smiles, and after years of searching, he returns to Earth, and shouts, for every angel to hear.

_Dean Winchester is saved._

Dean Winchester doesn’t remember him. 

He doesn’t remember escaping Hell, only the forty years he suffered there, but it makes no difference. Castiel knows the man is trying to find him, feels the tug on his grace and unknowing prayers, meant for no one else to hear. 

And Castiel wants to go to him, to soothe his hurt, but he doesn’t.

There’s no time for getting attached to humans like Dean Winchester, the ones that are destined to die fighting. There’s no time under normal circumstances, when Castiel was a mere soldier, leading his garrison to protect, to defend, to attack.

But now?

Now, when Castiel is the only one in his garrison left standing, and the war for the sixty-six seals has begun. Now, there’s only time for following orders, for preventing a broken seal.

No, he does not go to the hunter’s side, no matter how tempting it may be, because Dean Winchester is just a human, and Castiel knows keeping the Apocalypse at bay is more important.

Dean gets his attention anyway.

There are two people in the barn where they summoned him. 

It’s an old building, one that shouldn’t still be standing, but it’s roots are stable and firm, and so it does. Castiel can see it from miles away, can sense the power radiating from those old walls. Sigils defend it from dozens of creatures, everything from demons to spirits to man-made gods.

But none of them deter him. 

There’s not a sigil or rune on this earth that can keep him away, not when he’s this close to meeting his charge in person.

His wings move, and within an instant, he’s at the door. The wind echoes, rattling the barn’s ceiling and jostling the loose panels. Castiel lets his wings guide him, because he knows his limits. There’s too much energy here, too much noise. He can see the two souls perfectly, and where the building begins and ends, but beyond that, the world is a storm of bright lights and clouds. 

Still, he cannot wait any longer.

The doors slam open, and Castiel steps in.

Instantly, he recognizes one of the souls, and his grace cries out, rejoicing, because Dean Winchester is just as beautiful on earth as he is in Hell. The other, however, is less familiar. It's older, more bitter, but good. 

While it’s good to know that his charge has people he can trust, that’s not what Castiel is here for. 

Sparks fly as lights shatter, exploding as his grace unfurls. Dean shoots, as does the other man, and bullets hit their mark, but Castiel expects nothing different. They are hunters, and he is an unknown. He’s not naive enough to think they’d trust him, not after that unfortunate woman looked upon his true form.

He allows his joy to flicker through his grace for one moment, and then, he’s there. Standing next to Dean and his grace years to embrace his soul, but Castiel remains still. Watching.

“Who are you?” Dean demands, just like he had in Hell, even if the man doesn’t remember it. 

Castiel doesn’t say _I’m the one who rebuilt your body in the depths of Hell._ Doesn’t say that they are tied together in more ways than one, more closely than words can describe. He only tilts his head, quiet, thoughtful. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Moments later, a knife is jutting out of his heart. It’s an odd sensation, having a blade inside his body, but doing no harm, but Castiel pays it no mind. He simply pulls it out, slowly. It won’t damage his vessel beyond repair, but there’s no point in being careless. 

The older man swings at him behind, but Castiel deflects it, feeling cool metal against his palm as he puts the hunter to sleep. _Rest,_ his grace hums, _rest, for the end may be near._

He lowers the human to the ground, then turns his gaze to his charge. “We need to talk, Dean. _Alone.”_

“Who _are_ you.” Dean asks, his voice low. Dangerous.

“Castiel.”

“Yeah, I got that.” His charge says, his soul flaring. “I mean _what_ are you.”

So he truly doesn’t remember, Castiel thinks, though, he isn’t surprised. Rebuilding a body was one thing, something simple and clear, but to rebuild a soul is something else entirely. Souls are delicate things, Castiel knows that better than anyone. They aren’t meant to be manipulated, to be touched and carried and mended.

Souls exist only to create life within a human’s body.

They aren’t meant to be intertwined with grace, but Castiel doesn’t regret healing it.

“I’m an angel of the lord,”

Dean laughs, disbelieving. “No such thing.”

His grace hums. “This is the problem. You have no faith.” And his grace flares outward, and the last of the barn lights flicker. He extends his wings to their full length, feathers and bones rusting as he moves. It pulls at sore muscles and healing burns, but he hardly notices. 

“Why?” Dean asks. “Why? Why would an _angel_ bring me back?” 

Castiel tilts his head, taking a closer look at the man’s soul. It’s the same as it was in Hell, pure and bright, but there’s something else. Something bitter and hurt and-

Oh.

“You don’t believe you deserve to be saved.”

Castiel doesn’t understand them.

Humans. 

They’re contradictory little beings, knowing nothing about the world around them, yet constantly creating new ways to thrive in it. They live surrounded by hurt and suffering, but still, they keep going. They are proud and doubtful, intelligent and naive, innocent and broken.

Humans are nothing like angels, and sometimes, Castiel understands why Uriel regards them so disdainfully.

Dean Winchester may be the most confusing one of all.

He loves so fiercely, yet his soul tears itself apart. He tortured in Hell, and yet, his soul aches for every victim they come across. He calls for Castiel while he sleeps, stuck in the depths of nightmare, and shuns his every attempt to speak. 

But Castiel doesn’t serve Dean Winchester, doesn’t serve humans at all, so he cannot dwell on that.

He helps the humans when he can, speaking to Dean through his dreams and, when he is permitted to, warning them about one of the sixty-six seals. Castiel helps where he can, of course. They all have the same goal of preventing the apocalypse before it even begins, but that is where the similarities end.

Castiel is an angel of the lord, a soldier of his father’s ways, he cannot come to their aid simply because they ask him to. 

The casualties humans are facing in this war are unfortunate, and Castiel wishes there was more they could do, but this _is_ a war. Angels die every day to protect the seals, and humans are caught in the crossfire. 

No one deserves to die in a battle they know nothing about, but there is nothing to be done about that, and sometimes, the ends justify the cost. 

Dean Winchester, of course, disagrees.

His soul is furious, and Castiel knows the expression he wears isn’t a pleasant one. He understands Dean’s sentiments, he’s not exactly _happy_ to cause so many needless deaths, but it’s necessary.

“So this is your plan? You’re going to smite the whole freakin’ town?” Dean says, incredulous. 

They don’t have _time_ for explanations right now. “The witch needs to die, and we’re running out of time. The seal must be protected.”

“There are over one thousand people here!” Sam Winchester says, and while Castiel might not know his soul as well as he knows Dean’s, he’s not blind to the dejection there, hidden behind the taint. “And you’re willing to kill them all?”

Uriel takes a deep breath, one he doesn’t need, and for a moment, Castiel thinks he just might smite the brothers. But when he speaks, his voice remains even. “This wouldn’t be the first town I’ve… purified.”

“Look,” Castiel starts, “We understand that this is regrettable-”

 _“Regrettable?_ ”

“-but we have to hold the line,” he finishes, ignoring Dean’s interjection. “Too many seals have broken already.”

“So you screwed the pooch on some seals and now this whole town has to pay the price?”

And Castiel knows where Dean’s coming from. He understands why it may seem like they don’t care about the lives lost, or the cost of saving the seal, but now isn’t the time for human things like doubt or sentiment. 

“It’s one thousand lives against the lives of six _billion,_ ” he says, his words slow, because he doesn’t understand why they don’t see this. It’s a simple statement, nothing complex. A thousand people dead, in order for the world to live. Shouldn’t the choice be clear? “There’s a bigger picture here.”

Dean laughs, dark and bitter. “Oh yeah, because you’re big picture kind of guys.”

Frustration hums within his grace, because there’s nothing else left to do. As long as the witch is allowed to live, Samhain will be summoned, and the seal will break. Castiel may be able to see souls, to identify their truths and their lies after a single meeting, but that means nothing when it comes down to it, that means nothing if the witch cannot be found. 

His wings flare, arching over the humans head. He senses Uriel questioning him, but he ignores it. “Lucifer _cannot_ rise. He does and Hell rises with him. Is that something you’re willing to risk?”

And he must’ve said something right, because Dean hesitates.

But Sam is insistent, unwavering in his ideals. “We’ll kill this witch and your seal won’t be broken. No one has to die.”

“We’re wasting time with these mud-monkeys.” Uriel says, and his irritation is clear. His grace is a steady beat of _“It’s time to move on."_

Castiel considers it, and truly, that would be the kinder option, but Uriel is right. It simply isn’t possible. “I’m sorry,” he says, “But we have our orders.

“B-But you can’t do this,” Sam says, and when Castiel glances in his direction, he finds despair and hollow faith. “You’re _angels._ You’re supposed to show mercy?” 

Uriel chuckles. “Says who?”

And he wants to say that angels aren’t what humans make them out to be. To say that they’re soldiers, warriors of God who show mercy to those who deserve it, but old enough to know when mercy isn’t an option. He wants to tell Sam Winchester that his faith is in the wrong place if he’s looking for softness, but he doesn’t.

“We have no choice.”

“Of course you have a choice,” Dean cuts in, his temper rising. “You can’t tell me you’ve never questioned a crap order? What are you two, just a couple of hammers?”

Castiel is glad he isn’t looking in Dean’s direction. They aren’t mere _tools_ to be used, aren’t just hammers of destruction or of order. “Look, even if you can’t understand it, have faith. The plan is just.”

“How can you even say that?”

He turns to face them, a solemn look on his face. They don’t have _time_ for this repeated explanation, nor for all of the questions the Winchesters are asking, but the brothers cannot stay here, and Castiel knows they won’t leave without their answers. “Because it comes from Heaven, it is just.”

“That must be nice,” Dean says, darkly. “Being so full of yourselves.”

And he’s done. He’s tired of Dean’s constant doubt, of his constant questions, because no matter how beautiful and good his soul may be, he still doesn’t understand. Time and morals aren’t a luxury they can afford. “Tell me Dean,” Castiel says, directing all of his attention to his charge, “If your father gave you an order, didn’t you obey?”

Dean is silent, and for a moment, Castiel thinks the words have done their job. Then, “I’m sorry, boys, but the plans have changed.”

Uriel’s grace flares. “You think you can stop us?”

“No,” Dean answers, “But if you’re going to smite this whole town, then you’re gonna have to smite us with it, because we aren’t leaving. See, if you went through the trouble of busting me out of Hell, I figure I’m worth something to the man upstairs. You wanna waste me? Go ahead and see how he digs that.”

The challenge is clear, and Castiel wants to tell Uriel to back off, because Dean Winchester is not someone that can be tossed aside, but the other angel is already speaking.

“I will drag you out of here myself.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have to kill me, and then we’re back to the same problem. I mean, come on, you’re going to wipe out a whole town for one little witch? Sounds to me like you’re compensating for something.”

Dean steps closer, his words for Castiel, and him alone. He resists the urge to step away, the sheer brightness of Dean’s soul overwhelming his senses. But he doesn’t. Castiel may not hate humans the same way Uriel does, but he won’t let them know about this. He doesn’t want harm to come to his charge, nor to his brother, but he won’t allow them to know he doesn’t see as they do.

Not unless he knows they are trustworthy.

“We can do this.” Dean says, more confident than Castiel has ever heard him. “We will find that witch, and we will stop that summoning.”

And Castiel wants to believe him. Wants to believe that his charge can handle this, that there’s a way to protect this seal without sacrificing innocent people. His grace sings ‘ _trust him_ ’ even as all logic says no, and-

 _“Castiel!_ I will not let these-”

“Enough.” He says, and Uriel goes quiet. Castiel looks at Dean, hoping he’s meeting his gaze. “I suggest you move quickly.”

“You like them.” Uriel says, displeasure dripping from his words. “The humans.”

Castiel doesn’t know the answer to that. “We may be fighting a war, Uriel, but that doesn’t mean killing the humans is the only way forward. If we are meant to be their shepherds, then what is wrong with finding a way that doesn’t end in death?”

“Our superiors will not be pleased with you if they fail, brother.”

Castiel knows this. Still, he can’t make himself regret his choice. Angels were created to watch over them, to guide humans away from destruction. And if the seal is saved, then no harm is done. 

And if it isn’t? If the Winchesters fail?

That will be on him.

“Your blind faith in them concerns me, Castiel. You cannot see their ill-intent, not in the way I do.”

He glares. “Dean was brought back for a reason. He has potential. He may succeed here. At any rate, it’s out of our hands.”

Castiel isn’t sure when he started becoming attached to his charges. More than that, he isn’t sure when he started considering Samuel Winchester, the boy with the tainted soul, his charge. Still, both humans have slowly come to be under his protection.

He’s grown fond of the pair, but that doesn’t make their antics less frustrating. He knows they aren’t happy with Heaven’s ways, and he understands their stubbornness, because not everyone is willing to make the same sacrifices they are. 

If everyone was willing to sacrifice lives, then the world would be a terrible place. 

Still, when he feels the familiar tug in his grace, Castiel doesn’t hesitate to answer the call. 

One moment, he’s somewhere of no particular note, and the next, he’s in California, standing outside a run down motel. It’s late night or early morning, however, and Dean’s car is parked outside their door, and Castiel wonders what they possibly could have called him for.

With a thought, he’s standing over his charge, his wings subconsciously hovering around the man. 

Dean is asleep, though, Castiel sees why he might have been calling for him. The man thrashes and his soul _cries,_ and the part of his grace intertwined with it yearns for comfort. While Castiel is glad neither hunter is hurt, it doesn’t sit right with him to leave while his charge suffers.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, gently draping his left wing over Dean’s trembling form. It’s an instant comfort, or Castiel assumes so, since almost immediately, his shaking slows, and Castiel feels his breaths evening out. 

“Get some rest, Dean,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. Castiel can’t afford to be this soft, not to humans, not when the apocalypse is closing in, but the angels have always said he felt too much. He thinks it might be true. Softly, he touches two fingers to Dean’s forehead, letting his grace flow between them. “Sleep, your dreams can’t hurt you now.”

“Cas?” His human says, his voice slurred with sleep. “Is that you?”

Castiel is gone before Dean can say another word. He can’t be caught here, not if he wants to continue without Heaven’s questioning. He is not loyal to humans, no, but he can’t deny that he’s fond of the older Winchester. 

After that, he doesn’t hesitate to appear by Dean’s side at night, slipping into silent motels and whispering quiet comforts, always gone before the first trace of dawn.

His brothers and sisters are dying. 

Every day, another angel is dead, another one of his family turned to ash.

Castiel looks for them. He searches for his siblings, calls to their grace until he hears its call, and he’s too late, always too late. 

Every angel he knows mourns their passing, mourns the lives that are lost, mourns for their loved ones because they are more than soldiers. They are more than faceless members of Heaven’s army, they are brothers and sisters and _family._

They are soldiers, yes, but they have lived through peace, and that is all they want in return. They are soldiers, built for war and designed to shepherd, but they were never meant to die like this. Never meant to die alone, for parking lot funerals and explosions of grace, but these are the times they live in.

All angels mourn the deaths of their own, but in the end, Castiel is left to find the remains.

Their grace sings to him, even as it dies, the last embers of fire clinging to life. Grace calls for him, a beacon even from miles away, and Castiel answers it. 

His wings carry him from human brothers to fallen sisters, from hunters to the hunted, and all Castiel can do is wish them peace. Peace in whatever life has in store, peace at the end of all things.

Castiel prays with ashes on his fingertips, the only remnants of beautiful wings. _Please,_ he prays, _don’t let my doubts be true._

He doesn’t know how it came to this. 

The circle wasn’t meant to break, Castiel had made it himself. He knows energy and souls better than any other angel he’s met. If Uriel specializes in purifying a town, then Castiel specializes in any matter to do with souls, because they are all he knows. 

Still, somehow they lost control.

“You will not harm Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, but he knows he’s already too late. He was too late to save Dean from Hell, from the temptation of Alistair’s blade, and he’s too late now, to save him from the demon’s brutal swings. 

One moment, Alistair has Dean by the throat, the next, Castiel is plunging the demon knife into his shoulder, twisting it with his grace as he pulls back. Alistair’s form shudders, flashing red like lava growing warm and cooling down. 

But the demon simply yanks the knife out, letting it clatter to the ground. “You shouldn’t have done that, angel,” Alistair growls, and then he’s charging forward.

Castiel knows Alistair is stronger than him, it’s why he waited to rescue Dean from Hell. But he also knows this. Alistair may be strong, but Castiel is fast, and now, with his charge injured on the ground, he can only hope that is enough. 

When Alistair swings, Castiel dodges. He lets his grace pool out around him, his wings unfurling until they span across the entire room. There’s no way for him to win this fight unless he uses everything he has, and if that means exposing his weakness to a demon, then so be it.

Alistair’s form twists, and Castiel can _feel_ the morbid curiosity radiating from his form. He bites back his panic, but Alistair is planning something, he knows it. The demon takes another swing, and Castiel steps to the side to avoid it, but Alistair is rushing forward and-

His head slams back against the support beam, and he’s frozen, a hand wrapped around his throat and metal jutting from his chest. Distantly, he realizes he’s caught, trapped like a fly in a web, by the only demon who knows his weakness. 

And Alistair _smiles._

Smiles because he knows there’s nowhere Castiel can go, not without leaving Dean behind. Smiles because there hasn’t been an angel like Castiel in centuries, and he has a reputation that’s known to Heaven and Hell alike. 

Smiles, because he has Castiel just where he wants him, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Alistair hums, a pleased little sound that screams _something is wrong._ “You’re one of those _soul-sighted_ angels, aren’t you? You know, I’ve always wanted to get my hands on one of you, see what makes you different from the rest of those tiresome celestials. See what makes you _tick.”_

 _“Cas,”_ Dean says, “What’s he talkin’ about?” And his voice barely a whisper, but Castiel can’t find him. Can’t find his soul because Alistair is chanting, rasping ancient words that force his grace to the surface, and he _can’t see._

The sound Alistair makes is dark and cruel, a mockery of laughter, and Castiel knows his next words will be nothing good.

“They don’t _know,_ do they?” Alistair leers, and his grip on Castiel’s throat tightens as he laughs. “Tell me, do the Winchesters know you’re spying on their souls? Do they know that you’re _useless,_ nothing more than a blind little angel.”

“Tell me,” the demon whispers, leaning in too close, too close, _too close._ “What it feels like to see nothing, knowing you aren’t going to leave this room alive.”

Fear pulses through his veins, because Alistair might not know how to kill angels, but that means nothing in a time like this. Castiel isn’t scared of death, he never has been, but he can’t stand being helpless like this. 

Heaven is the comforting darkness, Hell is bright, but this is _too much,_ and there’s nothing Castiel can do about it. 

“Dean, _run-”_ Castiel rasps, and the words feel like fire. He may be stuck here, but Dean is quick, quick enough to escape while Alistair’s back is turned.

“Oh, Dean, Dean, _Dean,_ don’t you want to try your hand at it?” Alistair says, his voice low, and Castiel goes still. “I’ll make you a deal. Cut up the little angel and I’ll give you a free pass. No time on the rack, and you’ll be my apprentice again. How does that sound?”

For a moment, there is nothing. Dean’s breathing is the only sound. It’s sharp and even and sure, and Castiel doesn’t know whether he’s considering the demon’s words. And as much as he wants to trust his charge, and Father, he _wants_ to trust Dean, some part of his mind whispers otherwise.

Because Dean Winchester is a human with no obligation to him. And what has Castiel ever done for him? Yes, he saved him from Hell, but he was too late, far too late to save him from that pain and the proof of that is right there in front of him. 

Alistair, however, refuses to let the question go unanswered. “Come on, Dean, you know you want to. After all, the angel’s been keeping secrets from you, and don’t you want to know _why?_ Why they chose the one angel who can look into your soul, who knows what you feel, to keep you in line?”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know if he _can._ In Hell, it was Dean’s choice to put down the knife, and now, it’s his choice whether to pick it back up. Even if he could speak, it isn’t his place too. 

“You know you want to, Dean,” the demon whispers, “It’d be so _easy_ to pick up that blade again, to make the angel bleed. How poetic would it be for your training to restart with the one who stole you from me?”

Silence stretches for one moment, two. Then, “Fine.” Dean says, and the word is filled with something Castiel can’t place. “But let go of him first, would ya? If we’re doing this,” he says, and his voice is even, “We’re doing it.”

And Alistair’s hand around his throat is gone, but his hold remains, and Castiel is all too aware of that. “Dean-” He starts to say, but nothing more comes out. 

“Shhhh,” his charge whispers, rustling around in Castiel’s pockets until he makes a satisfied hum. Dean steps back, and then a familiar blade is under his chin, forcing his face upwards, and Castiel goes still. “You know how this works, Cas.” Dean says, nonchalantly. “I can’t have your people goin’ after Sam, so you’re just going to answer some questions for me, alright?”

He isn’t a place to say no, even if he _did_ know plans regarding the brothers, so he does nothing. He says nothing and he does nothing, because there’s nothing he can do about any of this, because he can’t even see the person in front of him.

This is the Dean Winchester he found in Hell, desperate and regretful and _burning._ It’s not the man he’s gotten to know since then, the one whose nightmares he chased away, the one who only hurts those who threatened innocents.

And Castiel has no way to recognize the man that’s close, far too close to him, because he _sees_ nothing, and that is the most unsettling part of this. Because that beautiful soul is drowning in a sea of energy so deep that Dean’s emotions can barely pierce it, and Castiel is helpless like this. 

Pinned down by Alistair, his charge holding his own blade, the point against his throat, and there’s _nothing_ he can do. Castiel’s fought in Heaven and in Hell, with friends and with enemies, he’s spent centuries of life in the dark, and in the face of all this light, he’s blind.

Trapped by the man he’s supposed to protect.

He lets his eyes fall shut, a curtain of darkness, and waits. 

And he doesn’t have to wait long.

Moments later, his blade is dragged across his ribs, tugging a pained cry from his lips. He jerks away on instinct, and Castiel doesn’t know if it’s from the pain or the shock, because there’s no way for him to know what’s happening.

A hand is on his chest, fingers spread across his heart, and distantly, he realizes it’s Dean’s. Castiel tries to twist out of his way, because he doesn’t know if he can _trust_ him and his grace is crying out at the touch, but Dean’s grip is firm, and he can’t move and-

 _“I’m so sorry, Cas,”_ Dean’s voice whispers inside his head. And his voice is softer than a prayer but his blade still moves across Castiel’s skin, and if he was sorry, why didn’t he _stop?_ But Dean keeps talking, keeps drawing blood, and Castiel doesn’t know _why_ he’s bothering to pray at all. _“It’ll be over soon.”_

“Dean,” he rasps, and he hates himself for it. Hates that this is what breaks him, hates that he’s helpness enough that it got to this point. “Dean, _please.”_

His charge leans closer, close enough for Castiel to feel his breath on his face. “Alright, Cas,” he whispers, moving the hand on his chest to his face. “Just relax, everything will be fine, I promise.”

“See, I knew you still had it in you, Dean,” Alistair says, a smile in his voice. “You see, Hell doesn’t create anything new, no, Hell _reveals-”_

But the demon chokes on his words, and Castiel feels anger rolling off Dean in waves. “I’ve just about had enough of you.”

And then Castiel is falling forward, finally free of the forces holding him up, and he throws out his wings to balance him. Even incorporeal, they slow his fall, until Dean tugs him into his arms, slowly moving to the ground, his head leaning against the hunter’s chest.

Castiel tries not to flinch away. His vessel is injured, as is his grace, and his senses are overwhelmed, the world still too bright, too unclear. There’s nowhere for him to go, nothing he can see, and Dean Winchester is all he knows, but even that is a question.

The man hurt him, though, Castiel doesn’t even know how much of it was _real,_ or a way to distract Alistair, but Dean knows his weakness, knows the one thing that makes him useless, and Castiel doesn't know what to make of that.

Dean’s hand covers his eyes, and he goes still. 

He doesn’t know whether to get away or to lean into the touch, doesn’t know who he can trust, because that trap could not have broken on its own, but Dean is still the man who’d cut into him, and that makes him wary. It doesn’t matter that Castiel is a warrior, that he’s felt worse pain than this and been in unwanted situations before. No, it’s not his pain that keeps him still.

It’s the bitter sting of being helpless when he’s needed. _It’s a gift,_ Gabriel had said, but it’s never felt more like a curse.

“Shit, Cas,” his charge says, softly. His hand doesn’t move, still covering his eyes, the other brushing over shallow cuts. Castiel tries not to move away from the hand that inflicted them. “I didn’t mean to let it last that long, but Alistair isn’t a stupid son of a bitch, I’ll give him that.”

Alistair. “Is he still-”

Dean’s hand finds its way to his own, calloused fingers rubbing his knuckles. “Nah, we’re safe for now. Alistair may be strong, but an angel blade to the heart seems to take care of pretty much anything.”

Castiel blinks. “Oh.” He feels Dean pulling him closer, feels arms tighten around his body and fingers prodding at his wounds, and he can’t take this helpless feeling any longer. Castiel tries to loosen Dean’s grip, but without his eyes, even a human’s grip keeps him held down. He doesn’t know what’s around him, doesn’t want to risk hurting his human in his panic.

There’s nothing that can be described as _safe,_ not when staying here. Castiel needs to regroup, to find Uriel and figure out how Alastair escaped, not lay here while a human tries to comfort him.

“I can’t be here.”

Dean’s grip tightens around his wrist. “No.”

“I can’t just stay here, Dean!”

But his charge is stubborn, always has been. “Dammit Cas." He says, his words loud among the quiet. “You're not healing, or at least not fast, and according to Alistair, you can't see for shit right now. And I may not understand your whole 'soul eyes' thing, but I know how injuries, and I'm sure as Hell not going to leave you here, bleeding out from injuries that I caused.”

The meaning behind the words is clear, and Castiel knows there’s no convincing him otherwise. He forces himself to relax, to focus on Dean’s careful touch rather than his heart pounding in his chest. “You have questions.”

“Damn right I do,” Dean says, but the words aren’t as harsh as Castiel expected. “Starting with what Alastair meant when he called you ‘soul eyes’ or whatever it was, but I’m not goin’ to make you answer anything right now.”

“Soul-sighted,” Castiel corrects, before he can stop himself. He pauses, because does he really want Dean to know this? It’s the one thing that sets him apart, the one thing that makes him different. “Once every few centuries, an angel is born that sees souls. _Only_ souls. From what I’ve been told, they don’t normally live very long. They said the same about me.”

Castiel feels Dean’s smile, rather than seeing it. “You turned it into a weapon, didn’t you?”

He grins. “I proved them wrong.”

Dean laughs, the sound echoing in Castiel’s bones. The movement from it jolts his injuries, and when Castiel winces, Dean goes still. “You’re not healing,” his human says, and it’s not a question. “You can’t heal from your own blades, can you?”

“No,” Castiel says with a small smile, because Dean is far smarter than people think him to be. “It cuts through our vessels, yes, but it also damages our true forms. I’ll heal, of course, but it will take some time.”

Dean shifts, tugging off his jacket and pressing it against the cut on his ribs. “So, what I’m hearing is that you’re going to be on the mend for a few days, when you’re pretty much blind, from whatever Alastair did, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know you won’t end up dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Castiel pauses. “I don’t need your protection-” 

Dean cuts him off with a soft hum. “I know it’s a lot to ask for right now, but trust me, Cas, I know. You can still kick my ass six ways from sunday, but you’re not frikin’ invincible, man. Besides, you’ve healed Sam and I dozens of times, let me return the favor for once.”

Oh. So it was about returning the favor? _Humans are strange creatures,_ Castiel muses, because what has he done to earn it? He brought Dean here to call upon memories of Hell, to inflict them upon the one who taught him pain, and before that, he’d threatened and fought, even if he hadn’t liked it.

Castiel feels Dean’s smile, senses the warmth and care and doubt flowing from him in waves. He doesn’t understand _why_ his charge seems to care, why he’s treating him in that same gentle manner he would treat his brother, but he’s not in a place to question it.

“Why are you helping me?” Cas asks, tilting his head. “You don’t owe me anything, and I haven’t been of much help to you and your brother, so why? There’s no reason you shouldn’t go find your brother and continue hunting.”

Dean sighs, the sound quiet. His hand moves back to Castiel’s heart, but it’s only there for a second before it’s resting on his face, fingers curling into his hair. It’s a soft gesture, a caring one, one that Castiel doesn’t understand. “Because that’s just what us Winchesters do, Cas, and you’re kind of one of us now. Or you could be, at least.”

“Dean, I can’t just abandon my brothers to join you-”

“That circle didn’t break on it’s own, Cas, and you know it. How could he break it? That wasn’t your everyday demon trap, and we both know that he never should have been able to escape it.”

And Castiel knows what Dean is implying, what he’s hinting at. It’s blasphemous to even _think_ about such things, to doubt his brothers and sisters and yet-

Demons don’t know how to kill angels. Alastair was proof of that. If anyone could figure out that their blades were the key, it’d be the demon who loved to hurt and was in pain when he didn’t. It’d be the one who’d spent centuries in Hell torturing lost souls just to know _exactly_ how humans work.

Demons don’t know how to kill angels, and there was only one group of beings with the key.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says, and his voice sounds almost _pleading._ “You know it wasn’t an accident.”

He takes a breath. One, two, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t need them, because Castiel can’t get the words out of his throat. “I know it wasn’t. No demon could have done it, none of them know _how_ to.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” And then Dean’s rising to his feet, and Castiel is left on the ground. “Come on, let me help you. I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen after all of this, but I’m not goin’ to use any of this against you. Trust me, Cas.”

Dean holds out his hand.

And Castiel isn’t a stranger to the world’s darkness, nor to it’s light. He’s fought in the darkness for centuries, made it his home and his weapon, because not a living soul understands the world the way he does, and he thrives in the light of his Father, in the warmth of Heaven and the brilliance of souls.

But Dean Winchester is light and dark, good and bad. He is Heaven and Hell, not because he's the Righteous Man, Hell-bound and grace touched, but because he is human, and there is something beautiful about it. 

Castiel looks at the soul he was meant to save.

Cas takes his hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic is dedicated to TheDarkestCreatures aka Chaos incarnate, who made this go from short to long by saying "what if there's *angst*."
> 
> So! This is most definitely goin' to be part of a series, spanning from season four through season five, though, I may make some shorter things after the main fics if people are interested in this 'verse. I'm kind of concerned about it being out of character, but it's almost 1am so that may just be the tiredness talking.
> 
> Anyways, hope y'all enjoyed this!


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